THOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood
We turned, departing from that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable as a dream of night;
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
More verses by William Wordsworth
- Upon Perusing The Forgoing Epistle Thirty Years After Its Composition
- The Power Of Armies Is A Visible Thing
- Where Lies The Land To Which Yon Ship Must Go?
- The Shepherd, Looking Eastward, Softly Said
- Weak Is The Will Of Man, His Judgement Blind